Chapter 29 Oxford
Oxford
Itrot alongside Melody, savoring her soft praise and the way her scent has changed. There’s a lightness to it now, like happiness manifested in olfactory form.
“You’re such a good boy, Oxford,” she tells me as we venture deeper into the trails. “I can’t believe I’m considering staying here in Snowflake Valley. And it’s partly thanks to you.”
I accept the praise with a giddiness I never thought I’d ever experience.
If I’m being candid, part of me cannot wait to bounce again, for scientific experimentation, naturally.
But Melody staying in Snowflake Valley also brings me many benefits: continued premium bedding, regular strawberry treats, and the elimination of separation anxiety that I absolutely do not experience, though Dr. Hersey might theoretically diagnose in lesser llamas.
“Do you think Everett will be surprised I quit my job?” she asks me.
I tilt my head, considering. Everett’s attachment to Melody is evident in his dilated pupils and an elevated respiratory rate whenever she comes near. His surprise and satisfaction will be substantial.
“You’re right,” she nods, as if I’ve spoken. “He’ll be happy.”
I’ve noticed Melody has developed an uncanny ability to interpret my non-verbal communications. It’s almost as if—
My ears swivel forward. Voices. Male. Unfamiliar. And the distinctive sound of metal striking wood.
Melody stops. “Do you hear that?”
I stare pointedly in the direction of the sounds. Of course, I hear it. My auditory perception far exceeds human capabilities.
“It’s probably Everett and Gabe,” she says, already moving toward the noise.
I hesitate. This is not our usual route. The snow is deeper here, nearly reaching Melody’s knees in some places. My instincts, which are remarkably well-honed despite my domestication, suggest caution.
But Melody forges ahead, and I follow. Someone must ensure her safety, after all.
The voices grow louder. Coarse language peppers their conversation, the rhythmic thwack of axes continuing.
We reach the edge of a small clearing, and Melody abruptly drops to a crouch, pulling me down beside her. I comply, though the posture is undignified.
“Those aren’t our guys,” she whispers, eyes wide.
Indeed not. Four men in dark clothing work efficiently around three snowmobiles. Large tarps are spread on the ground, piled high with freshly cut pine trees.
“They’re stealing trees,” Melody breathes, fumbling in her pocket for her phone. “These must be the thieves Everett was looking for.”
She begins filming, her hands remarkably steady despite her racing heart.
I observe the thieves with professional interest. Their movements suggest experience in this illicit activity.
The largest one is an alpha, judging by his scent and size, appears to be the leader, barking orders at the others.
“Just a few more seconds of evidence,” Melody whispers, “then we’ll go get help.”
I approve of the leaving part.
Then her phone rings loudly in her hand, the screen lighting up with the name “MARCUS.”
“No, no, no,” she hisses, frantically trying to silence the device.
Too late. The alpha’s head snaps up, eyes narrowing in our direction.
“Hey! Someone’s there!” one shouts, pointing directly at our hiding spot, grabbing an axe.
“Run!” Melody gasps, scrambling to her feet.
I do not need to be told twice. Self-preservation is a perfectly rational instinct. We turn and flee as the men shout behind us.
Running in the snow is challenging for humans. Their bipedal locomotion, while occasionally useful for reaching high shelves, proves woefully inadequate for rapid escape across uneven snowy terrain. Melody demonstrates this limitation spectacularly, pitching forward after only a few strides.
“Oxford!” she cries as she face-plants into a snowdrift.
I pause, looking back at her. The men are gaining ground. One brandishes an axe in a manner that suggests he’s considering how I might look as a winter coat.
Melody scrambles up, starts running again, but she’s too slow, and then falls again.
“Go!” she yells at me as she struggles to stand.
As if I would abandon her. I may be pragmatic, but I am not without loyalty. Also, I can no longer live without strawberries and my premium bed.
I position myself directly between Melody’s legs as she attempts to rise. With a swift upward motion of my neck, I propel my head upward.
The result is… loud.
“AAAAHHHHHH!” Melody shrieks as she slides backward down my neck, her legs instinctively wrapping around my midsection, her arms encircling my neck in what humans might call a “death grip.”
“OH MY GOD!” she yells almost directly into my ear, which is unnecessary given our proximity.
“OXFORD WHAT THE ACTUAL—” Her words dissolve into incoherent screaming as I launch into a full gallop.
I am—it must be acknowledged—impressively fast. My powerful legs propel us through the snow with efficient grace, putting distance between the pursuing thieves.
“MY PUBIC BONE!” Melody wails, her grip tightening to the point where respiration becomes challenging.
The thieves’ voices fade behind us, but my fear response has been thoroughly activated. There’s no way I’m becoming llama BBQ. Adrenaline floods my system.
I’ve fully activated “flight mode.”
“Oxford, you can slow down now,” Melody gasps, her voice vibrating with each of my strides. “I think we lost them.”
I hear her words but find myself unable to comply. My legs continue their rapid movement, carrying us through the trails at a pace that would impress professional racehorses.
“Oxford!” Her voice rises in pitch. “Seriously, you can stop now!”
Stop? What an odd suggestion.
Stopping is for creatures who aren’t being pursued by axe-wielding tree thieves. I accelerate, my hooves barely touching the ground.
“MY LADY BITS WERE NOT BUILT FOR THIS!” Melody shrieks as we hurtle over a fallen log.
I must admit, there is something exhilarating about this physical exertion. Perhaps this is why humans engage in recreational running when not being chased by predators.
We burst from the trees onto the main path, startling a couple, who stare open-mouthed as we thunder past. Melody offers them a weak wave before burying her face in my neck again.
“Sorry!” she calls back. “Runaway llama! Tree thieves! Call the sheriff!”
I veer onto another trail. My respiratory rate has increased, but I don’t feel tired. If anything, I feel more energized with each stride.
“Oxford!” Melody’s voice sounds desperate now. “The exit is the other way!”
An insignificant detail. Direction is secondary to velocity at this juncture.
“SLOW DOWN!” she pleads. “PLEASE!”
I consider her request as we approach a fork in the path. To the left, we go deeper into the woods. To the right, Perfect Pines. Logic suggests the tree farm is where we’ll find Everett and Gabe, protection—the other, axe murdering llama eaters.
I veer right, maintaining speed.
“Oh, thank god,” Melody gasps as the familiar sight of the farm appears ahead. “My vagina may never recover.”
Her anatomical concerns are noted, but secondary to our immediate survival. I charge ahead as Perfect Pines comes into view, with last-minute Christmas tree shoppers who leap out of our path.
“RUNAWAY LLAMA!” someone calls.
“TREE THIEVES!” Melody shouts, still clinging to my neck. “SOMEONE GET EVERETT!”
Then I see him, Everett.
He’s just ahead.
I charge towards him as Melody is screaming, “I’M GOING TO DIE STRADDLING A LLAMA!” but I can’t stop—my legs won’t cooperate.